


In The Midnight Hour

by symbiont



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, Minor Violence, Moira catches feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 12:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symbiont/pseuds/symbiont
Summary: 'Angela Ziegler, Mercy’is typed in the same font, the same neat lines, as all of the others. And yet it stands out to her, pulls at something in her chest. Her mind conjures up images of Angela’s warm hands brushing her own, of Angela’s sweet smiling face and feels her heart thump in response.





	In The Midnight Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt for the Moicy discord for the line, "a hoarse whisper “kiss me”"
> 
> I gave up on trying to keep track of Overwatch lore a while ago so if anything doesn't make sense I'm sorry.
> 
> Come and yell at me at moira-exe on tumblr!

It’s rare that Overwatch and Blackwatch are assigned to the same mission, especially these days when both organisations are stretched so thin. Moira had almost rejected the assignment – she’s allowed to if she decides that her current research is too vital, and Gabriel has her working all hours anyway at the moment. His intense focus on the goal is turning fanatical, frantic pushes for more progress. She watches this all with cold, detachment – if Gabe wants to destroy himself for science, she’s more than happy to help him while getting information from him. She can only just about deal with the Blackwatch operatives, let alone anyone from Overwatch.

But as she scans down the document, her eyes catch on the names of the assigned operatives. Or one name in particular. ‘ _Angela Ziegler, Mercy’_  , is typed in the same font, the same neat lines, as all of the others. And yet it stands out to her, pulls at something in her chest. Her mind conjures up images of Angela’s warm hands brushing her own, of Angela’s sweet smiling face and feels her heart thump in response.

She hits accept, before turning off the alert with a flick of her wrist.

**-**

They make it back to Watchpoint Gibraltar in the dead of night, around 3 am Moira estimates from the darkness and the position of the moon, as she unfolds herself from the back of the transport truck. Her knees protest as she stumbles out into the night air, from too long spent crammed like sardines on pallets in the back, with the rest of the agents. It’s raining, because _of course_ it is, and she quickens her pace, hurrying after McCree’s broad back into the Overwatch facility.

She ducks inside passed the heavy looking shutters, her wet shoes squeaking on the polished floor, and looks around. The lights are too bright and everything is airy and clean. She cringes away, back towards the door feeling like an interloper; like she doesn’t belong here.

But still, despite her instant dislike of the aesthetics, the high-tech and warm feeling the place gives off does remind her of Angela. Of Angela’s soft smile and dimpled cheeks, of her flying above them on the battlefield in her spotless white Valkyrie suit. And for that reason, she grits her teeth and bears it – follows McCree to her assigned quarters wordlessly as a heavy, sick feeling pools in her gut. 

The hallways are unfamiliar to her, Blackwatch has its own hideouts leaving her unused to setting foot in Overwatch territory. It’s like walking through a maze, a labyrinth of hallways each alike stretching out from the entrance hall with nothing but the jingle of McCree’s spurs and the click of her own shoes against the polished floor. The walls are covered in old style notice boards, printed photos tacked haphazardly over them. She allows her gaze to wander over them as they pass, McCree seems too lost in his own mind for conversation and she can’t say she blames him. The smiling faces of Overwatch’s agents beam out at her - groups or sometimes just one or two posing for the camera, all dressed in the same bland Overwatch uniform. Almost as if they are family.

Her thoughts turn to Gabriel, Genji, McCree… her family she supposes, even if they are a lot more dysfunctional than Overwatch. She scratches the back of her hand, at the place where her biotic implants sit, feeling as if something is buzzing beneath her skin, as she worries her lip with her teeth.

‘Here you are,’ McCree stops suddenly motioning to a door that looks no different from any of the others they have passed. But she trusts his judgement enough to nod in his direction and press her thumb to the print reader. It’s not her real thumbprint of course, the implant just below her left shoulder blade means she can change any of her prints at will, but it is the one Overwatch and Blackwatch have on file for her, so the door slides open.

The room is bare but comfortable - a small bed in one corner, a desk with its own holographic computer screen, a comfortable chair, a wardrobe fitted into the wall and a door leading to what she assumes is the bathroom.

She strips off her outer armour, dropping it onto the armchair on her way to the bathroom, pushing the door open with her elbow. It’s small but functional, and thankfully has a shower tucked into the wall. She starts up the stream to let the water warm while she strips off her under-armour and underwear, stacking them neatly on the toilet seat.

Finally, she steps under the warm water, closing her eyes and sighing as she feels it washing the sweat and dirt from her skin. She pushes her hand back through her hair, working the knots loose with her fingers before working a dollop of the nameless brand of shampoo through it. It’s not ideal but for now just being clean is enough.

She allows herself a few self-indulgent moments of just enjoying the warmth of the water flowing over her aching skin and muscles, closing her eyes and tipping her head back into the spray. The noise of the water hitting the tiled floor, the oppressive humidity of the steam forming in the room allow her to live in sensation only – to for a moment forget the troubles nagging at her thoughts.

But soon enough the nagging feeling returns, the itch beneath her skin to keep moving, so she turns off the water with a swift motion and steps out from the little cubicle, towelling herself dry with practised motions.

The wardrobe contains sweatpants and a loose t-shirt in a size suspiciously close to her own, the pants only sag a little around her hips which is more than she can say for most clothes. Now she’s clean and dressed, she knows from the ache in her muscles and the slow way her mind is ticking over that she should lay down in the bed and sleep. Except that the image still haunts her, the moment as fresh behind her eyelids as if she is still seeing it as if it’s happening now in front of her again.

The way she had crumpled to the floor, mouth parted in a soundless scream makes Moira’s palms sweat, even now. She shoves them into the pockets of the sweatpants to stop them from shaking, wishing she were in her lab so that she could destroy something. Pour acid over it and watch it bubble away to nothing.

But _she’s_ here, somewhere in the medical bay, and so Moira stays too. There’s nothing to take her mind off it now, even McCree’s even footfalls had been enough, so she paces up and down across the room trying to gain back control. It should be easy, she has shut off things before – emotions and things that she’s done. She’s cut out her heart and her moral compass crushed them beneath her boot in the name of science. Or so she had thought.

The memories have taken root in her mind now and like a stubborn weed refuses to give up, prickling at the edges of her mind. His gun had been pointed right at her, the perfect anticipation as her disrupted atoms had reformed.

She’d tried again, squeezed her palms together trying to coach the nanites into disassembling her again. But they’d needed to recharge and she’d remained horrifyingly solid, with nothing to do but stare wide-eyed down at the muzzle of his weapon. Her awareness had shrunk down to the gun and the frantic beat of her own heart inside her chest in fear.

But instead of shooting her, the painless method of blasting her into millions of pieces, he had raised the gun above his head, bringing it down as if to crack her skull. Her eyes had snapped shut on instinct, ready for a blow that never came. There was a flash of yellow light, like a shooting star and she’d opened her eyes.

Mercy had slumped forward, first to her knees and then as if her strings had been cut she had fallen straightforward. Moira had felt herself move without thinking, hands gripping Mercy’s arms and taking her weight for her, barely daring to breathe.

‘Angela! _Angela_!’ she’d screamed without making a sound, words lost in the back of her throat. There was too much blood and Angela hadn’t moved again. Eventually, the others had come, had pulled Angela from her arms even though she should be the one treating her, as a healer.

Angela is what’s tying her to this place as she begins to realise, pausing her pacing in the centre of the room, is fairly common at this point. How many times has she accepted an assignment because she knows Angela will be there? How many times has she reined in her meaner, colder instincts because Angela is warmer than the sun? How many times has she thought of her, not just because of her intelligence? Her heart rate picks up for a moment and that tells her all she needs to know. Angela is the outlier, the data point that refuses to fit with the rest.

She knows she can’t stay here, pacing her room when Angela is here – in the same building as her. _Wounded_ because of her. Makes up her mind in seconds, striding towards the door - she _is_ a doctor, after all, maybe she can help.

**-**

‘You did that for me, didn’t you,’ she says, her usually sharp mouth feeling heavy and slow. ‘On purpose.’

Despite her pale, drawn face Angela still manages to look apologetic – her lips pursing and a wrinkle forming between her brows. The evidence is pretty damning, the nervous look on Angela’s face is an obvious tell. That Angela had almost thrown away her life, that… Moira’s thoughts stutter to a halt there. She can’t even imagine it, the lengths it would’ve driven her to – to bring Angela back, the pain that would twist beneath her ribs.

‘He would’ve killed you,’ Angela replies after a moment, looking away from her face. Moira feels her pulse racing under the thin skin of her wrist, her hands shaking at her sides. ‘I couldn’t let him do that. I couldn’t watch you…’ Angela’s voice trails off, as she sinks even further back into the pillows.

Moira forces her hands into her pockets to stop herself from reaching out, from gripping Angela’s shoulders. To do what she doesn’t know except for her instincts telling her to protect, to not let Angela go. That Angela is _hers_.

‘He could’ve killed _you_ ,’ her voice comes out rough and raw, even to her own ears. With horror she realises that her eyes are watering, tears threatening to spill out over her lashes. She blinks them back, forces her face back into neutrality.

‘Yes,’ Angela agrees, her eyes slipping closed. ‘I couldn’t help it, I wasn’t thinking I guess. I needed to protect you…’

‘ _Protect me_ ,’ she hears herself echo, ‘why-?’

Angela doesn’t reply, staring back at her with wide and watery eyes. A heavy silence settles between them, but Moira finds it’s not uncomfortable. Angela is beautiful, such a bright light and a sharp intelligence that rivals her own. Might even exceed it. She clenches her fingers tighter, feeling as if she might unravel at any moment – like Angela has the loose thread coming from her heart pinched between her slim fingers, tugging.

She can only say in a hoarse whisper, ‘kiss me.’

She almost expects Angela to reject her, to take a step back with disgust written over her face. Instead, warm and soft hands press either side of her head, pulling her in with gentle pressure until they are nose to nose – Moira bent awkwardly over the armchair.

She barely dares to blink, let alone breathe, staring wide-eyed down at Angela. First, at her eyes, that stare back at her with calm determination, and then her gazes drifts down to her lips. They’re soft, pink and slightly chapped, parted just slightly and Moira feels herself lean forward, like a puppet on a string to press her own against them.

They’re still for a few moments, Angela’s eyes squeezed shut, her lashes pale where they lay against her skin. Moira can’t help but stare, completely frozen and out of her depth now that it’s happening; Angela hasn’t rejected her. But she steels herself, slipping her eyes closed and moving her lips lightly against Angela. And Angela responds, is soft and pliable where Moira pushes her, surrendering when she licks along the seam of her mouth. Even as her heart stutters in her chest and she tastes Angela on her tongue, Moira still can’t help but think of the way Angela had saved her – had taken the killing blow for her. How she has been acting since then, so unsure and yet so sure, her eyes full of emotion.

_Angela is in love with her_. The realisation hits her like a physical blow, forcing the air out of her lungs in a gasp as Angela’s hand slides up the column of her neck from its place on her shoulder, to grip her chin. It’s warm and soft against her own cold skin, and Moira feels herself relaxing into it as quickly as she had riled herself up over the revelation. Angela’s words, Angela’s touches are like no other.

‘Are you alright?’ Angela’s voice is laced with worry, her thumb stroking across the joint of Moira’s jaw. Moira doesn’t like it, the touch is like balm to her, but the way Angela’s speaking and the emotion behind her actions. She doesn’t want Angela to feel like that, she realises. Because she cares about Angela, because…

_She is in love with Angela._

‘I adore you,’ she drawls, leaning in to capture Angela’s soft lips again, ‘I love you.’

**-**

Angela’s hair pools over the pillow, like a golden halo, catching the rays of the early morning sun. Moira wants to observe, to memorise the look of Angela’s sleep soften face, the sweet smell of her perfume still clinging to her skin from the night before.

They’d gotten back late from the post-mission celebration, which was really a few drinks shared between friends. Usually, Moira had tried to avoid them at all costs, hanging around at the edges like a shadow. But perhaps the others high spirits had been contagious - after all, the mission had been a success, and there had been no other injuries apart from Angela’s. More likely, from the data she collected, it has to do with Angela herself who’d laughed loudly and smiled broadly and more importantly had her hand twined with Moira’s the entire night.

Beneath her Angela stirs, eyes blinking open and lips already curving up into a half smile. It’s so wide and genuine – from the gentle upturn of her lips to the crinkles at the corners of her eyes that Moira feels her cheeks betraying her, as a red blush spreads blotchily across them.

‘I adore you,’ she whispers, pressing her face into the crook of Angela’s neck where she knows Angela is particularly ticklish, her chin bumping against Angela’s collarbone. Underneath the thin, fragile skin Moira knows there is a spider web of veins, a heart beating as fast as her own and a fine ribcage. Unparalleled beauty. And yet despite all these fascinating things, Moira has no desire to investigate them. She finds that she likes Angela just as she is.

‘And all it took was me almost dying,’ Angela giggles, as breathlessly as Moira had predicted she would, ‘for you to admit that. A fair price, don’t you think?’

Moira kisses the smile off of Angela’s face, pushing her back down into the sheets.


End file.
